


Hit What's Pitched

by daisynorbury



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Episode: s10Ep17 Where There's a Will There's a War, First Kiss, M/M, my dvd says it's s10Ep16 but Wikipedia disagrees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6740149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisynorbury/pseuds/daisynorbury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>s10Ep17 (or 16) from BJ's perspective. While Hawkeye is at Battalion Aid stabilizing soldiers and writing his will, BJ is at the 4077th frantic with worry. Here's what happened after the episode ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit What's Pitched

**Author's Note:**

> [The Tiger](http://www.bartleby.com/101/489.html), by William Blake. 
> 
> [Sophie](http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/mash/images/e/ea/Sophie-the_colonel's_horse.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20150210154400)\- if you had forgotten- is the name of Col. Potter's horse.
> 
> [This M*A*S*H unit memoir](http://koreanwar-educator.org/memoirs/secor_harold/index.htm#LifeMash) informed and colored my version of the 4077th.
> 
> [daisyfornost](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/daisyfornost) on tumblr.

It was dinnertime when he returned from Seoul to the 4077th, so BJ didn’t bother to hit the Swamp before stopping at the mess tent. He waltzed in in his class A’s and overcoat, thoroughly enjoying the novelty of feeling truly clean and scrubbed and washed and brushed and shorn and tidy and *clean* for the first time in… how long had he been in Korea? 

Potter, Margaret, Charles and Mulcahy were all at a table together. Their reaction was immediate and exactly as teasing as he’d expected. Margaret- half charm, half envy- said, “Wow, smell the cologne! You better stay away from open flames.” BJ laughed and began unbuttoning his coat. 

Potter said, “When the armistice was signed in ‘18 I was in ‘gay Paris’ and I celebrated in an all-night business establishment that smelled a little classier than you do.” 

BJ pulled off his coat with an “It’s only aftershave!”, but Charles declared that “It’s clashing with my liver and onions”, and Father Mulcahy claimed to be rooting for the liver and onions. 

_Oh, let ‘em scoff,_ he thought. He’d shot back “You’re all just jealous because I’m the only little petunia in the onion patch” when Margaret caught his hand, spying his nails. “Wait a minute. You got a manicure!” She showed his hand to the rest of them. He let her. 

And then Charles said, “I hope you manage to stay beautiful ‘til Pierce gets back to see you.” 

BJ looked up. “Back from where?” 

Potter replied for Winchester: “Battalion Aid was short a surgeon. I had to send him in your place.” 

BJ felt his stomach drop. “Hawkeye had to go to the front because I was getting a haircut?” His mood plummeted, comforting cleanness quite forgotten. 

And Charles, rarely content to insult without adding injury, said, “Well, you might have broken a nail.” Right. One more gold star on Winchester’s asshole chart. 

BJ snatched his hat off the table and walked away from their laughter. It wasn’t funny. “Knock it off, Charles.” 

Dinner was almost over and the chow line relatively short, which seemed about right since the food itself was neither dark nor handsome. BJ managed to be glad that at least this round of chicken-mashed-potatoes-creamed-corn wasn’t dark. Small mercies. Still, when he returned to the table only Margaret and Charles were still there, and they were arguing about something or other. BJ ignored it. He ate in silence, feeling Hawkeye’s absence like a sandbag in his chest, and left.

He’d barely changed back into his fatigues when a batch of wounded arrived on a bus. He and Klinger were unloading when one of the men said the fighting was bad up at the front. He’d even heard that a doctor died. 

“Wait a minute. What?” 

The soldier’s voice was thick with pain. “A doctor. At battalion aid.” 

BJ’s stomach dropped another six inches. Soon it would be joining his feet. “Which one?” 

The soldier felt at his bandages. “I don’t know, I never even saw him.” 

_Don’t panic._ “D’you catch a name, anything?”

The soldier exhaled and lay back. “Nope.”

“Klinger- “  
Max was already nodding- “I’ll call Battalion Aid,”-  
but Wilhite was already calling him away- “Klinger, over here!”,  
so: “As soon as I can, sir.”  
BJ clenched his jaw and returned to triage.

`````

In the O.R., BJ tried not to imagine what Hawkeye was going through up at the front. Pulling grenades and metal shards out of children, shells dropping all around him, frantically stitching soldiers back together just enough to send them down to the crew back here. BJ knew; he’d been up there himself. The noise was incredible. The dirt, the smell, the chaos. He’d been terrified: barely able to keep himself together, much less concentrate on surgery. He doubts he was a very effective doctor the first couple times he was up at the front.

Kellye was changing his scrubs when the worry became too much. “Where the hell is Klinger?”

Potter barely looked up from his patient. “Keep your lid on, Hunnicutt.”

BJ’s lid had a mind of its own. “How long could it take to make one lousy phone call?”

Potter kept his cool, of course. “Klinger’s got his hands full with this SRO crowd of casualties. Suction.” 

Margaret was assisting him. She turned her attention to BJ. “There’s nothing to be gained by expecting the worst.” He couldn’t see her expression behind the mask, but he could hear it: frustrated, exasperated, sympathetic. 

Klinger came in behind a gurney, right off cue. “Bad news: the phones are out at Battalion Aid. There’s no way to reach him.”

 _Oh, of course._ It was plenty bad enough that Hawkeye had to be up there when it was BJ’s turn, and now he couldn’t even find out if he was still alive. “Damn.”

“Sorry, sir.” Klinger managed to look sorry despite the mask.

BJ looked down at his next patient. “What’s goin’ on up there?”

Klinger pitched his voice low and encouraging. BJ could tell he was trying to break the news gently, but there’s really nothing gentle about “I did get through to I Corps. They say there’s pretty heavy shelling in that sector.”

BJ pointed his right hand down and Kellye gloved it. “Wonderful.”

Klinger’s low “Yeah” spoke for them all. Mulcahy came up behind him and said, “Oh, BJ, there’s no reason to assume that the dead surgeon is Hawkeye.”

He pointed his left hand down and Kellye gloved that, too. “No reason to assume that it isn’t.”

Potter broke in, “You’ve gotta stop tearing your hair out about this. Nobody plans his own destiny. The best thing we can do is hit what’s pitched.”

BJ looked down at what life had pitched him this time. Perforated femoral artery. Not as bad as some, but that’s like saying Korea is one of the “smaller" wars. The soldier was lucky: he got BJ. And BJ was lucky: he wasn’t a soldier. And Hawkeye was… _Christ._ BJ couldn’t even think the worst to himself, despite what he’d said to Mulcahy. Hawkeye was the only thing keeping him together over here, the one thing his mind kept circling back to whenever it got so bad that he started making plans to go AWOL. Steal a jeep, drive to the civilian airport in Seoul, plunk down his last red cent, go home, and move Peg and Erin up to Vancouver. His daily fantasy. _People dodge the draft all the time. Easy._

Easy except for Hawkeye.

But Potter and the others were right, he knew. Panicking about it wasn’t helping anyone. He pushed everything but technique and experience out of his mind and let his training take over.

`````

Two hours and three patients later BJ looked down and… _Where did this kid get Hawkeye’s stitches?_ It took him a second to understand what he was seeing. _Idiot! From Hawkeye!_ Relief hit him like a coffee IV. He was laughing before he realized it, punched the air, and yelped for joy. He knew Potter was wrestling with a bowel resection so wasn’t surprised when he said, “Watch the racket, Hunnicutt. This hospital’s in a hospital zone.” 

BJ nearly shouted despite the colonel. “Hawkeye Pierce is alive and well and living at Battalion Aid!”[1]  
Potter looked up from his patient. “What? How do you know that?”  
BJ could barely contain himself. “He left his fingerprints all over this guy!”  
Klinger cut in: “What are you talking about?”  
BJ had to work to talk through his still-bubbling relief: “Who else but Hawkeye sews vertical mattress stitches with white cotton sutures?”

The O.R. exploded in cheers. Through the ruckus BJ heard Potter say “Attaway, Pierce!”

``````````````````````````  
  
BJ lay on his cot in the Swamp, half asleep but irritated enough that he knew it wouldn’t last. Eight hours in surgery had all but snuffed the glow of freshly-polished captain. His haircut was intact, but he wanted to shave again already. He rubbed his eyes and jaw, then sat up and stared at the tent wall for a minute before rummaging around for his razor.

BJ Hunnicutt was not fundamentally conflicted. He was very clear about what his attachment to BF Pierce meant, and understood what he wanted from the man, and had accepted months ago that- were the world quite different- he’d pursue Hawkeye with the same care and passion and charm that had won him Peg. And it would be goddamn incredible. Difficult, sure- Pierce was stubborn and crazy in a way Peg never could be- but no less sweet and hot and hilarious and powerful for the difficulty. He and Hawkeye would steal a jeep together, drive to the airport together, plunk down their last red cents, go home, and move Peg and Erin up to Vancouver. All of them. A happy family of four. Dr Hunnicutt, Canadian gentleman surgeon, his wife Peg, their husband Hawkeye, and their daughter Erin. _What kid wouldn’t want three loving parents? What mother wouldn’t want an extra father around? Two salaries, and doctor’s ones at that. Hawkeye would love Peg._ She’d match him wit for drink for pun and put up with his nonsense only insofar as it entertained Erin and BJ. _And Peg would love Hawkeye._ Because he’d understand and soothe BJ’s war wounds in a way she just couldn’t. He’d be the reason BJ could stay grounded, there with his beloved wife and daughter in their home, instead of mentally wandering off to Korea all the time. Because the part of Korea that he’d loved and needed and gotten completely, inextricably tangled up with would be there with them. BJ wouldn’t have to squash that huge, aching part of himself down into a box in his mind and try- and fail- to ignore it. Peg would understand. He could explain it so she’d understand. His daily fantasy. _People bring their army buddies/lovers home to their wives all the time. Easy._

Easy except that the world very definitely was not quite different, not in that way. Not by a long shot. Army buddies didn’t miraculously become lovers, and people sure as hell didn’t live with their wife *and* their boyfriend, even in Vancouver.

He’d forgotten about the pimple on his cheek, and nicked it with the razor. He hissed and swore. So much for the great surgeon. From behind his newspaper Charles said, in a tone uncharacteristically gentle, “I’m sure he’s all right. You saw the sutures yourself.”

BJ set the razor down and exhaled, steadying himself. “Yeah.”

Charles lowered the newspaper to look at him: BJ stared into the shaving mirror, watching a thin trickle of blood edge the shaving foam pink. “And the shelling’s stopped. He’ll be back soon.”

BJ set his mouth in a hard line. “I know. I’m fine.”

Charles nodded politely. “Of course.” He brought the newspaper back up and his head disappeared behind it. BJ drew a clean line of pale skin out from under the white on his unmarred cheek. 

“And now that he’s survived Battalion Aid, he’s coming back to your tent glad and grateful to be alive, and will walk in here and lie down in his cot and go to sleep. Alone.”

BJ knocked a puff of shaving cream off the razor into the bowl. “What?”

Charles did not emerge. “Hm?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I beg your pardon?”

BJ growled. “Charles...”

He looked up from the paper. “What? Oh nothing, nothing. I just expect he’ll be tired when he gets back, that’s all.” 

Hunnicutt’s brows drew together. He frowned, then returned his attention to the face in the mirror.  
*swipe*  
*knock*

“And the doing of said nothing is- coincidentally- an excellent way to get absolutely nowhere with B.F. Pierce.” Charles continued to pretend to read. 

BJ stopped shaving. His eyes narrowed. “Charles…” his voice was low, fizzing with threat, edged in fear. “...You really better not be suggesting-”

Winchester cut him off. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

BJ stared in surprise, though Charles couldn’t see it behind the paper. “Winchester, I couldn’t be more happily married!”

He whisked the newspaper down, eyes wide. “Certainly! I apologize, Hunnicutt. That was uncalled for. I assure you, rarely have I seen a man more sincere in his love for his wife.” Charles smiled gently, then re-buried his face in the news. BJ set the razor down beside the bowl and reached for the towel. “And Hawkeye.”

BJ wiped the remaining foam from his face, snapped the towel down against the table, and pulled the styptic pencil out of the kit. “Can it, Charles. Really not funny.”

Charles folded the paper slowly and set it down on the trunk beside him. He sat up and put his feet on the floor. “No. It isn’t. I wasn’t going to say anything, but after your behavior today, I think it would be wise.” He kept his voice low. “‘Storm’s a-brewin’’, as my unmentionable black-sheep of a Vermont grandmother was so fond of saying. Look, Hunnicutt, I don’t care what you and Pierce do when you’re off duty- hell, more power to you if it’ll get you out of my hair for an hour- just don’t do it where someone who _does_ care might see you.”

BJ’s hand- styptic pencil therein still red-tipped from his cut- fell slowly to his side. There was no mockery in Winchester’s expression, no disgust in his tone, no threat in his posture. A little condescension maybe- he was still Charles, after all- but none of the condemnation BJ would have expected with such a speech. Just concern. 

“Jesus. You’re serious. We’re not… *I’m* not… Why would you even…?”

“Because as much as it pains me to admit it, you are two of the best surgeons I’ve ever seen, and the last thing I need is for the pair of you to be dishonorably discharged from this hell-hole and leave me stuck with all the work. So. I am advising you to remember the relationship between discretion and valor.” BJ blinked at him, astonished. “And if you tell anyone that I said that, I will write to your wife and tell her you’re having an affair with Sophie.”

Unbelievable. Charles- of all people- had figured him out. He wouldn’t have been too surprised by Potter or Margaret (or Sidney, obviously), but *Charles*? If it was clear to Winchester then other people probably suspected, too. He’d never made a secret of how close he and Hawkeye are, and today… He’d broadcasted his distress on every frequency.

BJ can’t think of a reply, and doubts there’s much point in continuing to deny anything. Winchester wouldn’t believe him anyway. He stared at his face in the shaving mirror. Charles was behind his newspaper again, looking like he’d never opened his mouth, clearly not even expecting an answer.

BJ stashed his shaving things away, switched off the lamp, and lay down on his cot. He was exhausted and expected to drop off immediately, but, of course, Hawkeye. 

A few minutes later Winchester put away the newspaper and switched off his own lamp. In the darkness, BJ found the nerve to speak. “Charles.” It was loud enough to get his attention if he was still awake, quiet enough not to wake him if not.

“Hunnicutt.”

“You’re keeping that conversation to yourself.” 

“What conversation? I did all the talking. Besides, you denied everything.”

Silence.  
Then: “Am I that obvious?”

“No. You forget: I live with the pair of you, and pay more attention than you realize.”

“You think Hawkeye knows?”

“I couldn’t begin to guess what Pierce does and does not know.”

 _Huh. Cagey._ Winchester wouldn’t rat him out, though. He was an ass but he wasn’t heartless. “Thanks, Charles.”

“Don’t mention it. Please.”

````````````````````````

Hawkeye knew he’d never be able to figure out how to honor BJ in his will until he let himself think about…  
_Shit. No._

War is hell and this war in particular because it’s _his_. He hates every single awful second of it. In the early days, he'd made mental lists of everything he hated about it, but that just made him angrier, which didn’t help. He hates how it’s keeping the Hunnicutts so far apart from one another. How it’s forcing Peg to raise Erin alone while she’s so little. He hates how it kicks BJ when he’s down and drags him through the mud every damn day. He hates and seethes and rages at it.

But.

`````

It’s late at night when Hawkeye returns from Battalion Aid. He opens the door to the Swamp quietly, tiptoes in, and sits down on his bunk.

BJ wakes, sees him, lifts his head. He says fuzzily, “Hey. When I wake up, remind me to give you a kiss.”

 _Huh. If only._ Hawkeye says, “Go back to sleep, you’re dreaming.”

BJ exhales and grins, returning his head to the pillow.

  
He hates and seethes and rages at it, but...  
He’s so glad that BJ’s here with him. And not just because it means he’s not alone. A friend in the nightmare and more than a friend, in far worse than a nightmare. He hates that the war has marooned BJ in Korea, but he can’t hate that BJ’s at the 4077th- just a table away in the O.R., or six inches in the mess tent, or shoulder-to-shoulder at the movies. Just a quiet word away at night. He can’t hate that BJ’s here with him, and part of him is surprised that he’s still capable of feeling guilty about it. He knows that giving Erin a list of the soldiers her father saved is a… justification. To himself. A way to salve his conscience. _Here, kid, see? The army needed your dad._ But he can’t lie to himself, not anymore. The truth is a lot less _all these people needed him to save their lives_ than it is _I need him to save mine._ Maybe someday he’ll have a chance to explain it to her. He picks up the photo of her with Peg that’s sitting on BJ’s trunk. Her sweet little face gazes back at him. He sets it down again, hauls himself up, and strides out of the Swamp and back across the compound to Potter’s office.

 _To Erin Hunnicutt: I leave you a list of all the young men your daddy took care of while he was in Korea. Many of them have him to thank for being alive today. I want you to understand why he had to be away during those first years of your life. I hope I have the chance to give you this in person, but around here you never know. This concludes my last will and testament. Benjamin Franklin Pierce._  


`````````````````````````

And then everything went back to normal. Cold, boring, brutal normal.  
For less than a day.

BJ and Hawkeye sat in the Swamp playing chess, as close to the stove as they could manage. BJ warmed himself by fidgeting. Or maybe he was warm enough and just jumpy. Hawkeye had returned alive, and in the middle of the night when BJ was mostly asleep and forgot to protect himself. And in his unguarded relief, he'd told Hawkeye to remind him to...

So.  
Jumpy.  
And impatient with the chess. It was inadequately distracting. And just an excuse, anyway. He didn't care about the game.

“You sure take a long time to move.”  
“It’s my Panmunjom strategy.”  
BJ tapped out a rhythm on his lap. “Whatever. I’m sure glad you’re back.”  
“Will you be quiet? I’m tryin’ to concentrate.”  
“Hey, for a while I thought you’d been killed!” With a *slap* his hands return to the rhythm on his thighs.  
“Are you trying to make me lose this game?”  
“You deserve to lose. You spoiled all my fun. Haircut, shave, manicure, massage- I couldn’t enjoy any of it.”  
“ _I’m_ gonna kill you if you don’t stop.”

The Swamp door clacked open and Charles swooped in. He took one look at the chessboard, moved a piece, and put Hawkeye in instant checkmate. Hawkeye and BJ erupted in exasperated jeers. Charles cackled derisively for a few seconds, rubbing his gloved hands together in child-like glee, then bustled right out again, as if he had forgotten something, or had popped in purely for the purpose of ruining their chess game and- his mission accomplished- had much more interesting things to do elsewhere.

BJ and Hawkeye stared at the recently-slammed door for a moment, then at one another, and then collapsed in laughter.  
Hawkeye- even before he'd got his breath back- said, “Can you _believe_ that guy?”  
“Was he listening at the door or something?”  
“Lying in wait?”  
“In the forests of the Night Swamp?”  
“In what furnace _is_ his brain, anyway?”  
“Did he who made the lamb make Charles?”  
“I’ll frame his fearful symmetry but good; just you wait.”  
“I look forward to smiling your work to see.”

And BJ did smile at him. Openly and happily and with lots of teeth. He couldn’t help himself. And Hawkeye smiled back, so wide that his eyes crinkled up. And then Hawkeye said: “So I’m reminding you.”

BJ shook his head slightly. “Of?”

“Last night when I got back. You asked me to remind you to give me something when you woke up. I wouldn't swear that I'm awake m'self, but you seem to be.”

“Did I?”  
He was immediately ashamed of himself. He knew very well what Hawkeye meant, but also knew that he couldn’t mean by it what BJ hoped. So he pretended not to remember. _Coward._

Hawkeye’s smile relaxed a bit. “Did you?” He gazed into BJ’s face with unusual sincerity. His tone made it clear that it was just a question, just 'Did you really ask me to remind you to kiss me?'

BJ swallowed. It seemed like… Hawkeye was giving him another chance. _What? Am I imagining…?_

“What hand dare seize the fire, Beej?”

“I…”

“Because I’ll tell ya, it was a little too hot to handle, up at the front. It got me thinking. I wrote my will. I couldn’t decide what to give you. Everything I thought of was 'Gee, friend, thanks for the best worst year of my life, it’s been swell,' and that’s not…”

Hawkeye scooted his chair around the table. Nearer to BJ. “What I really want to give you won’t wait ‘til I’m dead.”

Hawkeye’s eyes pierced right through his shell of fear and doubt and well-worn security. BJ swallowed again. Maybe this was okay. Maybe... Even if Hawkeye had zero interest, there's no way he'd rat either of them out to the army. BJ had planned to pretend he'd never said it, or that it was just another joke, but Hawkeye...

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Hawk, you’re no fool, so… Jesus. How are you so damn brave?”

Hawkeye lowered his voice to match. The Swamp was shut up as tight as possible against the weather, but still. Anyone could barge in. “'Brave' isn't... If there's nothing, there's nothing. That's fine. But when I was up at the front I kept thinking I was gonna die without ever knowing. And if there's _something_ , never knowing seems like a seriously sad waste." Hawkeye’s gaze flicked from one eye to the other, then to BJ’s mouth. “So I’m reminding you.”  


  
So there it was. Unbelievable. Army buddies don’t miraculously become lovers, unless one of them’s willing to take one hell of a risk. The best we can do is hit what’s pitched, and Hawkeye seemed to be pitching him a soft, slow, easy one right over the plate.

BJ swallowed again, and moved his own chair in closer. Hawkeye’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached out with one hand until his fingers brushed BJ’s knee. And there was nothing ambiguous about it.

And BJ knew that sooner or later, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. "But, the world..."

"The world that sent us here? The world that made this stupid, awful situation? To hell with those idiots. They've proven they don't know what they're doing. If you want to turn me down for _you_ \- or even me- fine. But don't do it for them."

Hawkeye's hand lay motionless on BJ's knee. He didn't push. Didn't even come any closer. BJ glanced down at it. He realized he was breathing hard. He seemed to be getting what he thought he wanted. Hawkeye was _offering_ and all BJ could think in the moment was... "Peg."

Hawkeye nodded but didn't look away. "Yeah. I know. Well, maybe. Point is I understand that this is far from simple."

  
BJ considered that seriously. 'Simple' wasn't a word he'd ever ascribed to any of his relationships, and he wondered what Hawkeye meant by it. And how Peg would feel. And how _he_ would feel, knowing what he'd chosen to do.

He stood, and Hawkeye's hand fell away. Pierce peered up at him, disappointment tugging at his features. "No, Hawk, stand up." BJ reached down and took the hand back into his own. "Come here." Hawkeye rose, and moved closer to him. Into BJ's warmth. "You don't know what I went through yesterday, thinking you were probably dead." Hawkeye stroked the back of BJ's hand with his thumb. "Yes, there is something. I don't know what it means yet, but I know that I don't want... to never know."

Hawkeye came closer still. BJ could feel the contours of his body. "And Peg?"

He frowned, then tipped forward until his forehead came to rest against Hawkeye's. "Crazy in love with her. I'll figure that out later. Safe to say I'll be telling her the truth, though." And he turned his face down and in, and Hawkeye angled his mouth up to meet him.

And within seconds Hawkeye's arms were wrapped tight around his back and BJ's hesitant kiss had flared into a wet slide of tongues and pull of lips that felt like coming home and tasted like sex. And he was done for, he knew it. Impossible. Wonderful.  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [1] Was the snowclone “Firstname Lastname is alive and well and living in Placename” in common use before Jacques Brel? (That's just an honest question- I really don't know.) If not, this line is an anachronism. [Jacques Brel is alive and well and living in Paris](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLUSRfoOcUe4YjmHbgk2P-Ht333RxMNB9T) debuted off Broadway in 1968.


End file.
